


Welcome, Wanderer

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: A Midsummer Night's Dream - Freeform, Darmok, F/F, Fairgrounds, Ferris Wheels, Gen, Languages and Linguistics, Mixed Media, Multi, Shakespeare, There really is a perfectly sensible explanation for all of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:10:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You're the ranking officer here. Would you care to explain this?"</em>
</p><p>It's a really long story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome, Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WildAndFreeHearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildAndFreeHearts/gifts).



_T'Plana-Hath II (a)_

FADE IN:

INT. USS T'PLANA-HATH II – SHIP'S NIGHT

A STARFLEET SCIENCE VESSEL WITH STANDARD BRIDGE LAYOUT, DIMLY LIT FOR THE GAMMA SHIFT. LIGHTS FLICKER ON CONSOLE PANELS AND THE STARFIELD IN WARP IS VISIBLE ON THE VIEWSCREEN. 

 

 

T'PEL [O.S]  
T'Lara. I would speak with you.

T'LARA LOOKS UP FROM HELM.

T'LARA  
This is not the appropriate time for this, Captain.

T'PEL  
Shall the morning and the light of day be more appropriate? Shall the long nights in the Typhon Expanse where danger lurks on every side?

T'LARA  
 _(to herself)  
_ Perhaps that is the truth: that there will be no more time for this.

T'PEL  
Will you join me in my ready room, Subcommander T'Lara?

T'LARA  
Is that an order, Captain?

T'PEL  
No. It is a request. It is earnest; it is sincere; it is hopeful. But it is a request.

T'LARA STANDS UP, AS IF TO MOVE TOWARDS THE CAPTAIN'S READY ROOM, THEN PAUSES, AND REACHES OUT. THEIR HANDS ALMOST – BUT NOT QUITE – TOUCH.

*

_Enterprise_ (a)

The night shift has run long and the alpha shift has come early, so Geordi doesn’t mind that half of his ensigns are collecting the handover engineering data while also clustering around one of the workstation monitors. ”We cannot,” says the voice from the screen, earnest and heartfelt, and Ensign Gomez lets out an equally heartfelt sigh.

“No,” she says, to thin air, “No, no, T'Pel, come on, you love her.”

There’s a spike of poignant music, then the other woman’s voice says, “Simply because you were betrothed in childhood to another? Those are the old ways, T'Lara! We stand here, on the edge of known space, where scientific passion and discovery awaits us, and you choose now to call on hidebound tradition, archaic ways..."

“Who’s running the ship?” Ro wants to know. “Like, if the Borg decide to attack them right now, while the captain and the first officer are having angsty heart-to-hearts in the middle of their duty shift?”

“Shut up, Laren,” Gomez commands. “Oh, come on, T'Lara, you can do it.”

“But of course we cannot,” T’Pel says on screen, “if you sincerely believe that we cannot” – and Gomez's padd hits the surface of her workstation rather harder than necessary.

“Oh, man,” she says, and the spiky theme music plays under her voice, all Vulcan lyre and theremin. “Damn. I really thought that was it, they were finally going to get together.”

“Four episodes still to go,” Ro says, comfortingly or maliciously, Geordi genuinely can't tell, “there's plenty of time for romantic trysts in the captain’s ready room.”

And speaking of the captain's ready room, Geordi has to go. "Gomez," he says, "can you just keep an eye" – but she's on it, and the last thing he hears as the doors to main engineering close behind him is Ro saying something about _Starfleet fraternisation regulations_ and _that damn Vulcan love boat_ , and Gomez letting out another sad, thoughtful sigh.  

 

*

_Sigma Tama IV_ (a)

“Are you ready for this, Data?” Picard asks, very gently, and places a hand on Data’s shoulder.

“Darmok and Jalad, at Tanagra,” Data tells him, wry and quiet, and Picard laughs at hearing those words from his mouth, with that sweep and lilt.

“O my faithful sprite,” he says, “let’s begin” – and they walk through the wood-panelled doors and stand under the great arch, beneath the banner of the United Federation of Planets.

  

 

 

*

_Ursa Major_ (a)

[Issue #1 coming soon, digital, paper and holographic formats, from Ursa Major Comics; suitable for Human, Vulcan and Betazoid children]

[Story and art by Solok of Vulcan] 

 

 

*

_Enterprise_ (b)

Nothing better to end the long night shift than being summoned by your commanding officer before breakfast. Geordi stops by his quarters for a moment to knock back three gulps of coffee: it’s not a briefing or a senior officers’ meeting; the message, crisp and formal, requests his presence most particularly and promptly in the captain’s ready room, and – Geordi’s reading between the lines here, and possibly channelling his mother - could give a damn about his earliest convenience, and for God’s sake can he do something about his hair. Geordi grabs a comb, puts a hand on his collar to check it’s straight, and hurries.

In the turbolift up to the bridge he meets Data and Counsellor Troi, wearing identical expressions of mild trepidation, and relaxes a little – whatever sword of Damocles is going to fall, at least there’s three of them for it to fall on – and then they're stepping into the captain’s ready room, looking at each nervously as the captain walks across to the room to his replicator, and says: “Tea. Earl Grey, hot.”

He carries it across the room once it’s appeared and takes a contemplative sip, and while part of Geordi is wondering if it’s possible to burst from nervous tension, he’s also getting the distinct impression the captain is stalling for time, as though he doesn’t know how to begin with this, either. And then finally Picard leans back in his chair and says, “Commander La Forge. Counsellor Troi. Commander Data” – and Geordi thinks, _aha, refuge in formality_ , and then, _oh, shit_. “I have received a memorandum this morning from the Starfleet general counsel’s office. It is in connection with a request for licensing of Starfleet… intellectual property.”

Geordi breathes.

“I am told,” Picard continues, his fingers coming together in a steeple, “that the office receives these requests on a fairly regular basis. Children’s science fairs using the Starfleet insignia in their little posters, that sort of thing.” There’s a pause, there, while they all recall the Enterprise schoolchildren’s annual Captain Picard Day celebrations. “And then there’s that dreadful _T'Plana-Hath_ thing.”

“T'Plana-Hath?” Geordi echoes, not knowing of any ship currently in service with that name, and to his surprise it’s Counsellor Troi who answers.

“It’s a,” she pauses, “well. A soap opera. Set aboard a Starfleet science vessel. Mostly about the, ah, romantic entanglements of the senior staff.”

“Ah,” Geordi says, a little helplessly, and belatedly remembers Gomez and Ro in engineering. “I’m – ah, not good on 2D stuff. Can’t see it very well.”

There’s a pause before Picard goes on. “The general counsel’s office has received a request for use of Starfleet imagery in a new children’s comic book and associated programme. I am told it will be an adventure series about three intrepid heroes travelling the Federation and, ah. Saving people from peril. This is the concept art.”

He lays it flat on the table. And yeah, it might be 2D, but Geordi can make it out just fine: the bright colours, the speech bubbles, and the three main characters. From left to right: a half-hooded figure with unnaturally pale skin and amber eyes; a humanoid woman, with dark Betazoid pupils and a ten-gallon hat; and – oh, hell – black male Human with a silver band over his eyes.

“Oh,” Deanna says, and she’s speaking for all of them, Geordi decides very quickly, “dear.”

“I’m pleased to see real-world diversity in children’s fiction,” Picard says, archly, and then, reading from the blurb: “Aimed at Human, Vulcan and Betazoid children. Ages 8 and up. The Empath, the Engineer and the Storytelling Robot. Commander Data, you’re the ranking officer here. Would you care to explain this?”

Data blinks twice. “Yes, sir.”

After a painfully long pause, Picard says, “Data, are you _going_ to explain this?”

“No, sir.” Data looks like he’s actually in pain; his hands are clasped tightly on the table edge and he's biting down. “I...” Another pause. “Ah.”

“Captain,” Geordi puts in, quickly, “it’s not that he won’t, it’s that he can’t.”

“Mr La Forge, in my experience there are very few things in heaven and earth that Data cannot explain, given time and a place to stand.”

“Yes, sir,” Geordi says, “but it’s, ah“ – Data puts his hands in his mouth and makes a noise that in a human, would definitely be frustration – “complicated. Sir.”

Picard puts his head in his hands for a moment, then looks up. “From the top, Mr La Forge. Please.”

 

 

*

_Earth (orbit)_ (a)

In the four minutes, thirty seconds it takes for core programmatic changeover, Geordi has time to pace up and down the lab under the observation window and wring his hands a little. "It's not a good idea," he's saying, "it's – like, giving yourself a massive dose of LSD, or maybe that fairy dust stuff they have on Risa..."

"People do that all the time, Geordi," Deanna points out. "Often with no ill-effects. It will be fine. Data thinks it will be fine. He agreed to it, remember?"

"Data consented to it," Geordi corrects, "in _writing_ , and if you don't think that's alarming, I don't even know what to tell you" – and then Data makes a small noise and they both stop short, turning around to face him.

"Data," Geordi says, softly, "can you hear us?"

"Omicron Theta," Data says, clearly. "Tripoli. The dancing men. Several times did I take up my pen to write to you. Arjuna, before the night of the battle. That April evening. That battle. That fall. That breaking. The things they carried. The dancing men."

He inclines his head, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then apparently goes to sleep.

Deanna puts a hand on Geordi's arm and says, "Well, I think that went about as well as expected."

 

 

*

_Sigma Tama IV_ (b)

"You," whispers the universal translator, eerie and echoing, "are abomination."

Data shrinks back, but says nothing; the Speaker turns to Picard, her expression impossible to read. "You " – the translation echoes and reverberates – "teach a talking doll our ways, and you call it _meaning_."

"Hold fast, spirit," Picard murmurs, for Data's ears. "Speaker – Data and I wish to be heard, and that is all. What you and your compatriots do with the information we provide is your own business. May I continue?"

The Speaker says something that the universal translator turns into white noise. From a spot on the front row, another Tamarian delegate stands and waves a hand that renders intelligibly: _please do_.

“I am here,” Picard says slowly, once silence has fallen, “in my capacity as a Starfleet officer, and as the particular officer who originally made contact with the Children of Tama, and began to begin to understand their – _your_ – way of thinking.” He smiles, and in their rising rows of seats, some of the Tamarian representatives smile back; since Picard’s own breakthrough about the Tamarian use of metaphor, the universal translator has been modified to the extent that the Tamarians probably have a vague idea of what he’s saying, if nothing more. “I am also here simply as a Federation citizen, inviting you to consider the benefit of Federation membership. This is not a spiel, a sales pitch, nor a threat; nevertheless, I hope it will be persuasive, as a belief sincerely held may be.

“This is…” Picard pauses, considers how best to express it. “This is my right hand, Lieutenant Commander Data. As well as being another Federation citizen and my operations officer, Data is a unique android lifeform created by a well-known Federation cyberneticist, Dr. Noonian Soong. As some of you are aware, he is not currently... as he usually is.”

Data says, soft but carrying, “Kizai's children, seeking truth, and reconciliation.”

There is a cloud of voices at that, a swift passage of whispers through the assembled rows of the Tamarian delegation. From that murmur, the translator produces fragments: _meaning_ ; _language_ ; _translation_.

“Data is not intended as a translator," Picard says, hasty on that point. "We all know of the progress that has been made with the universal translator project. But I believe that there is more to meaning than literal translation, and it is my hope" - his voice is rising over the low chorus - “that Data's presence here will be transformative, as he has himself been transformed.”

"In the forests and on the Tamarian plains," Data says, on his knees with his hands outstretched, "at the cusp of all things beginning" – and the whisper becomes a tumult, a warmth, a roar.  

 

 

*

_Earth (orbit)_ (b)

"What the hell do they mean, technical problems?" Geordi nearly yells, and Deanna puts a soothing hand on his arm.

"From what I understand," Picard says, unperturbed, sitting in one of the only two chairs in the lab, "a local power containment breach. No sign of sabotage, nothing to worry about. The Tamarians will merely be holding the meetings a week or so later. Contingency arrangements are being made by Starfleet Command as we speak."

"That's fine," Geordi says, pacing up and down. "But what happens to Data in the meantime? It's not like he can return to duty. And we can't just let him sit in his quarters for a week! It would be" – he hesitates, looking for the right word – "cruel."

"I agree," Picard says, sharply. "Counsellor, Doctor – from a medical perspective..."

"Captain, he's not sick, and there's no one else in his head with him," Deanna says, earnestly, and the look on Beverly's face is approval. "I would be very unwilling to put Data on medical leave. Not when it's us who did this to him."

Picard sits back in his chair and apparently takes a moment just to absorb what they've both said, then leans forwards, head balanced on his hands. "Data," he says, gently, "you have a pair of very loyal advocates here. What do you think?"

Data turns away from the observation window and comes to sit in the other chair, but says nothing. Picard glances quickly from side to side. "Does he understand us?"

"He should," Geordi says uncomfortably. "I mean, in the simulations it seemed that way. But it's hard to know for sure."

"Suggestions, please," Picard says.

"We could go on vacation," Deanna says, and Geordi looks like he's going to throw something.

Data says, deadpan, "Jo and Moon-Face in the Land of Do-As-You-Please" – and Picard coughs abruptly into his hand.

"An excellent idea, Counsellor," he says, after apparently taking a moment to pull himself together. "Commander La Forge, I'm quite serious. The three of you are hereby placed on leave pending the Tamarian summit. Quite apart from the fact I agree it would be cruel to leave Data to his own devices in his current state, it might have a benefit for the diplomatic mission. A low-risk scenario with, nevertheless, much scope for interest and stimulation – we'll have a much improved idea of how this is going to work." A pause. "Data" – his voice is soft again, like he's trying not to startle an animal – "if I'm going to give you permission to disembark, I need to know for sure that it's still you in there. That you know who you are, who I am, how this" – he waves an expressive hand – "works."

Data inclines his head. “I do their work,” he says, after some consideration, “and they shall have good luck."

To Geordi's surprise, Picard grins broadly at that. "That is a very interesting observation, Commander." He sounds quite sincere, and Data turns over his palms in response. "Commander La Forge, Counsellor Troi, carry on."

"Someone here," Geordi says, after the lab doors have shut behind the captain, "has lost their mind. I think it's me."

Data half-smiles at him, and Geordi takes his outstretched hand.

 

 

*

_Enterprise_ (c)

"Mr La Forge, I recall the summit meetings with the Children of Tama," Picard says impatiently. "Off the record, it appears their accession petition to the Federation Council will be fast-tracked, thanks in no minor part to the efforts of the three of you. However, this still does not explain" - he gestures at the artwork still sitting livid and accusatory on his desk - " _this_."

Data, who has been rocking back and forth slightly throughout this, takes a fist from his mouth and says, with great difficulty and electronic ghosts shadowing his voice: "We got out through the window."

Geordi looks at him sharply. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything. I just, I cannot" – and the fist is back in his mouth. He looks up and Geordi reaches out to put a hand on his arm.

"It's okay," he says, "we were there, too."

Picard says, "Counsellor Troi, perhaps _you_ could explain..."

 

 

*

_Earth_ (c)(ii)

"You don't understand!" Geordi yells through the forcefield. "Okay, forget all the other stuff. Forget about the Tamarians and the android reprogramming and all of that. The Enterprise. The Federation starship _Enterprise_ , flagship of the fleet. You have heard of that, right?"

The policeman turns around in mid-stride and looks at Geordi suspiciously. "You're telling me that you - the two of _you_ \- are Starfleet officers."

Geordi casts a rueful glance down at himself, civvies covered in dirt and grass stains, hands sticky and black with engine oil. "You're not catching us at our best. And it's three of us, actually."

"I can only see two," says the policeman after a moment, turns back around on his heel and strides out as though he never paused.

"Damn," Geordi says, and refrains from hitting the surface of the forcefield in frustration. Deanna's grateful for small mercies: all they need now is for him to get himself electrocuted. "Right, Counsellor, it's time we're getting out of here."

Deanna looks at the field again, and then at the three blank walls of the cell. "We're not on an away mission in hostile territory," she says after a moment. "Are you sure that breaking out of police custody on Earth..."

"I would sit tight till morning and explain it all to the magistrate," Geordi says. "I'd be happy to, even, we haven't done anything wrong. But I'm not leaving Data to sit by himself all night. The way he is right now, he'll be terrified."

"He's not capable of being terrified," Deanna points out. "I admit I've had some flashes of emotion from him since the reprogramming, but part of him is still the unflappable Data that we know." She's taking off her boots while she speaks, the flagstone floor imparting a sudden chill to her feet.

Geordi's staring at her. "Counsellor, you are the last person I would expect to fight me on this."

"Who said anything about fighting you?" After a minute, she's manage to unscrew a row of decorative studs from the boots, so they clatter to the floor in a shower of metal. "You're going to need tools. Will any of this do?"

It takes all the metal pieces from her boots, the tiny screwdriver that Geordi keeps on his person at all times, and a bit of spit and luck. And then Geordi's paused over the tiny panel in the floor next to the forcefield generator, ready to push two contacts together, when Deanna holds up a hand to stop him. "Wait," she says. "The man you yelled at. The cell guard. He's – making a patrol right now."

Geordi lifts his head and whispers, "I can't hear anything."

Deanna shakes her head impatiently. "He's wearing rubber-soled shoes. No, it's" – one step, two steps, _tired_ , _bored_ , three steps, _this shift is going on forever_ , four, _pick up chips on the way home_ , five, turn on the heel and back, and away – "his mind. He gets more readable for me as he gets closer. And now he's heading back – wait. Give it one more second. Now!"

Geordi pushes, the forcefield fizzles out of existence and they're on their way. Beyond the cell, the corridor is quiet and deserted, and Deanna guesses they're the constabulary's only customers tonight. They lurk into the deep shadows cast by the moonlight beyond the windows, darting from each patch of darkness to the next as Deanna tracks the various presences moving around them. "Guess they don't get a lot of arch criminals here," Geordi says, as they reach the end of the hallway without being disturbed. "Where do you think he'll be?"

Deanna looks up at a sign that reads "Evidence Room" and leads the way. The door is locked, of course, but it takes even less time than before for Geordi to crack the encryption in the tiny computer panel and push the door open. It releases noiselessly and they edge inside. It's very dark, the dim light from the window giving only a vague impression of a room full of high lockers and small control panels, blinking, and then Deanna notices the two sudden bright sparks towards the back of the room. Data's eyes, Deanna realises, and Geordi's already moving forwards: the darkness makes no difference to him. "Data! Are you okay? What happened to you?"

Data unfolds himself from the table he was perched on, and again, Deanna has one of those small flashes of emotion from him: this time, relief and fondness, mixed with something like satisfaction, as though he knew this would happen, and was merely waiting on exactly when. She smiles to herself as Geordi grabs Data by the shoulders, and then lets him go in surprise. "They tagged you!" Geordi says, outraged, pulls the electronic evidence tag from Data's wrist with one motion and starts looking around the room for the exit.

"Data," Deanna says, quickly, "how did you – I mean, why did they.."

"Surak, after S'task, beneath the darkness of the Forge," Data whispers, eerie in the dimness, and even though they're technically staging a breakout here, Deanna still pauses, looks around to see the room transformed, dry and cool as a desert night. It's a touch of Data's mind, she realises, that's creating that impression.

"I get it," she says, suddenly remembering the story of how S'task left Vulcan, "you played dead" – and as Data makes an expansive gesture above his head, she grins. "I do get it. The window."

On impulse, she grabs her ten-gallon hat from where it's sitting on a table with another evidence tag. "Right. Let's do this."

"You," Geordi says, reaching up to pull at the window catch, "are enjoying this."

"Yep." She puts the hat on her head and bows to Data, who knows what to do. Her foothold on Data's clasped hands is as steady as a ladder, and she pauses on the ledge, helps him scrabble up after her, and then they're jumping out, Geordi already out in the darkness in front of her, falling-

 

 

*

_Enterprise_ (d)

"Counsellor!" Picard says, holding up a hand, and they both pause.

"I guess," Geordi says, "we should have explained how it was we got arrested, huh."

 

 

*

_Earth_ (c)(i)

"Jumja sticks!" Deanna says, happily, as they come around a bend in the river towpath and the crowds of people and rows of food stands stretch out in front of them. It's a late dusk, the brilliance of the day fading into amusement arcade lights and fairground rides lifting luminous against the sky. "I haven't had them since Deep Space Nine."

"Lots of Bajorans on Earth, these days," Geordi says, thoughtfully inspecting the closest stand. There's candy floss and rock on offer, too, and roasted caramel nuts. Data is reaching out towards a tub of jellied eels in clear fascination.

"Well, I'm glad, I love them," Deanna says, reaches in her pocket for some credit chips. "Data, sweetheart, would you like one" – and then she puts a hand to her mouth, and after a moment decides that Geordi is going to stop breathing before he stops laughing, damn him. Data merely looks on, bemused. "I can't believe I just said that," she says, when Geordi finally pauses for breath. "Data, I'm sorry. A lot of my patients are children and I guess, you just remind me..."

"Wendy, on the way to Never Never Land," Data says, softly, and Geordi stops laughing abruptly.

"Well, why the hell not," he says, decisive. "Aren't we allowed a second childhood once in a while?"

He buys the three jumja sticks – the Bajoran stall-owner smiles as he asks for them by name – and they walk on towards the fairground lights, past little games where children take aim at paper targets with plastic phasers. Something catches Deanna's eye, perched at the back of a row of prizes on a low table. "Couple of chits gets you three," says the stall-holder, a bright-eyed Andorian. Zie sets down zir handheld device (it's playing familiar music: that's right, Deanna thinks, the new episode of _T'Plana Hath II_ , not that she cares) and waves zir antennae enticingly.

Deanna smiles. "Data," she begins, and he turns to her and smiles back, his eyes lighting.

"Gilchrist, of the three students," he says, mock-reprovingly, and exchanges a couple of tokens for three large foam plastic rings.

Deanna takes her profession seriously and read nearly every Sherlock Holmes story ever published shortly before Data's core programming was altered. "I suppose," she says, as the first two rings go extravagantly wild, "that's your way of saying you've got an unfair advantage in these things?"

Data nods wordlessly, and the third ring lands neatly on a ten-gallon hat with an arithmetic centimetre's clearance all around. The stall-owner raises a confused antenna – from the knot of zir emotions, Deanna suspects zie is wondering if they are some kind of associated sideshow attraction – but hands over Data's prize without a murmur. Data presents the hat to Deanna with a half-bow, and she laughs.

"I guess," she says, after a moment, "I shouldn't be surprised that this has brought out your sense of the dramatic."

Geordi looks at her curiously. "Can you get a read on him, right now?"

Deanna considers. "In a way, yes," she says, after a moment. "The Tamarians inhabit their myths. They _become_ Darmok, and Jalad. I can feel that, in him. Does that make sense?"

Geordi nods.

"In the same way, Data is the sum of every story he's ever heard. Just as we are, I suppose," she adds.

Geordi seems to think about that for a moment. "You mean," he says, "all the time, not just now" – and then Data stops short, says something under his breath and they all look down.

"Hello," Deanna says, coming down to eye-level with Data and the little girl who just plucked his sleeve. "Are you lost?"

"Kind of," the little girl says, looking from Data to Deanna. "And Mum says if I get lost I should ask a policeman, or a Starfleet officer…" – she gestures at Data's combadge – "and I thought…."

"Duty calls," Geordi says, and gives Data his candy to hold.

 

 

*

_T'Plana-Hath II_ (b)

FADE IN

EXT. PLANETARY SURFACE - DAY

AN M-CLASS PLANET – JUST. SOME SURFACE WATER IN STREAMS AND ROCKPOOLS, BUT OTHERWISE SAND. A DISTINCT RESEMBLANCE TO VULCAN. CLOSE TO THE NEAREST POOL, A VIVID PURPLE FLOWER, DRAWING THE EYE – LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. THE AWAY TEAM CONSISTS OF T'LARA, T'PEL, AND TWO HUMAN ENSIGNS, SCANNING FOR LIFESIGNS.

 

ENSIGN LAMORA [O.S]  
Satyananda? Are you okay?

ENSIGN SATYANANDA  
I'm not sure.

HER FINGERS UNCURL TO REVEAL ANOTHER PURPLE BLOOM.

ENSIGN SATYANANDA [cont'd]  
I feel kinda funny. Sort of… hot.

ENSIGN LAMORA  
Let me see that. Does your tricorder register the species?

SATYANANDA SHAKES HER HEAD.

ENSIGN LAMORA  
Funny, I'm not getting a match from the ship's primary databases either. What do you suppose it is?

SATYNANDA TURNS TO LAMORA WITH HANDS OUTSTRETCHED, THE YELLOW POLLEN VISIBLY STAINING HER FINGERTIPS

ENSIGN SATYANANDA  
Lamora – I've always, I mean, you and me, we've known each other a long time, and… uh.

THEY KISS. LAMORA SINKS INTO IT, THEN TAKES A CONFUSED STEP BACK. IN THE BACKGROUND, T'LARA IS LOOKING AT T'PEL CONTEMPLATIVELY, HER HANDS FULL OF PURPLE FLOWERS.

*

_Sigma Tama IV_ (c)

"Enterprise to Captain Picard."

"Picard here," he says, tiredly reaching for a mug of the hot liquid the Tamarians use as a mild stimulant. It's a short recess: Picard has been speaking for two hours, with Data behind and beside him, in constant motion, annotating and commenting and gesturing and clarifying. The Tamarian tea tastes like dry leaves and redbush.

"Captain, it's Commander La Forge." Geordi sounds harassed. "How's it going?"

"I would call the experiment a success," Picard says, and then, remembering the Speaker, "at least partially. I think we were right all along – we can't rely on the universal translator for something like this. We have to meet them in the spaces between."

"I'm glad to hear it," Geordi says. "But, Captain – how's Data? My simulations didn't account for the extra week, and I just – wanted to check. "

Picard turns. Data is prowling around the room distractedly, picking things up and putting them down; after two hours, even he is noticeably flagging, with a small lag-time to his responses, but he can't seem to sit still. "Data? Are you ready to go on?"

Data pauses for a second, turns around on the spot, then says, “The Enterprise on its continuing mission: to seek out new life, and new civilisations.”

Picard smiles. “That’s the spirit, my friend. Geordi" – and he nods to himself while giving Geordi his name; not quite professional, but Geordi's worrying about Data is not just professional, either – "I'll keep you posted. Picard out. Data, shall we?”

Data nods.

"Lead on, sprite," Picard says, and walking in step, they go back inside and take their places at their side of the room. The Tamarian legislature ordinarily sits as a half-circle of tilted seats, very familiar to human eyes, but for this occasion, they have chosen to discard their affiliations and sit as a bloc, as to see their extraterrestrial visitors more clearly. This time, the Speaker is at the lectern. "Captain Picard," she says, looking first at him, then at their audience; Picard guesses that whatever this conversation is going to be about, it's intended to be public. "I would to you be speaking."

Picard nods. "Please," he says, and Data reaches out with both hands, presumably a Tamarian gesture of encouragement.

The Speaker says, "You have to us spoken of things-given-and-sold, and of things-battled."

"Trade and military capability," Picard says, after a moment.

"But what of things-told?" She sounds derisive, as though speaking of an obvious lack. "Things-remembered?"

"Things told, and things remembered," Picard repeats slowly.

Beside him, Data holds out his hands again, makes a complicated series of gestures, and to Picard's shock, the universal translator whispers: _things-told-things-gone-things-that-never were_. It's not Data's voice in his ears but his own.

"Data," Picard says, very softly, forgetting the amassed delegates, the mission, the Speaker, just for a moment, for this question. "Do you understand _me_?"

Data says nothing, and Picard steps back. The Speaker moves to one side of the lectern, her body angled towards the gathered delegates, aggressive tension rising in the lines of her body. She's waiting – for something, but Picard doesn't know what. There's a low murmur among the crowd, and this time, the translator is rendering it harshly, simple words in staccato and sibilance: _wrong_ ; _breakdown_ ; _sin_.

"Data," Picard says, quickly, and then stops, with an impression that he's calling out across a chasm and his voice won't carry. "Data," he says again, casting for something he can use, and falls to the familiar. "Shrewd and knavish sprite," he begins, but before he can go on, the Speaker holds up a hand.

"What is it?" she says, curiously. "Sprite."

"A sprite is a mythological being," Picard says, throwing caution to the winds and just trusting, now, that the translator will make some sense of this explanation. He glances across at Data again, thinking that this is what Geordi was afraid of: the Tamarian programming is beginning to entrench. "A fairy, a woodland creature – something out of one of our oldest stories. There is one such particular character, named Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, who has particular resonance in Data's mind presently. I suppose you might call it – a joke."

"A joke. A playful thing?"

"Yes," Picard says after a moment. "Yes. It's a playful expression. Data is… obviously, not a mythical creature, but at one time in Earth's history, such a being as Data would have been science fiction, or a fairy tale."

"A tale," the Speaker says, looking at Data. "A story?"

"A story," Picard says, again, and then: "Things told, and things remembered. Our stories. You want our stories?"

"Sokath, his eyes uncovered," the Speaker says, and makes the gesture that indicates, among the Children of Tama, a smile.

Picard takes a deep breath, remembering Dathon, and says, "Once, a long time ago. A faraway place. Gilgamesh, a king."

Data says, warm and willing, "A wild man from the forest, Enkidu" – and in a concerted motion, they step towards their listeners. As Picard says, _Uruk, a great city_ , he's aware of Data's presence behind him, fey and altered but possessed of a great stillness. Without turning around he knows the moment to fall silent, ready for Data's turn to speak of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, of Oberon and Puck, the king and the creature from the forest, the two great friends who went together into the unknown. 

 

*

_Earth_ (d)

The small child's name is Amanda. "After the famous one," she says, proudly, holding up her little head.

Deanna laughs. "The famous one, I see. Is that Amanda Grayson, Ambassador Spock's mother?"

"Of course," she says, with a hint of outrage that it might be anyone else. "And I'm a bit Vulcan, too. And Human," she adds.

"A bit Vulcan, and Human," Deanna repeats. "Well, Amanda, my name is Deanna, and I'm a bit Human, and a bit Betazoid. Can we help you find someone? Your mother or father, perhaps?"

"No," she says, fiercely, "I want to go on the Ferris wheel and it's right here."

"Well, so do I," Deanna says, quickly scanning the people around her for someone who bears a resemblance to this girl and finds none: there's a Bajoran family sitting closer to the river, some humans with a picnic basket, but with white skin rather than black. The child's parents might not be biologically related, Deanna thinks, but there's also no one around with any sense of urgency, or immediate loss. "Maybe we can go on it together, you and me and my friends? And afterwards we'll see if we can find someone who belongs to you. Does that sound good?"

The little girl looks suspicious. "You want to go on the ride with me? Are you really Starfleet?"

Deanna chuckles. "My father was Starfleet too, and he used to bring me here when I was about your age. Look at this." As a concession to shore leave, her combadge is in her pocket rather than pinned on; she pulls it out and lets Amanda touch the gold surface in wonderment.

"Oh," she says, and then, pointedly: "That's where you go for the tickets."

Deanna grins and buys them. It's an old-fashioned Ferris wheel, with small metal cars open to the elements mounted on the outside of the wheel, and there's just enough room for the three of them, plus a little one. As they clamber in and pull down the safety bar, Geordi says, "Are you sure this is such a good idea?"

"Didn't your parents say that, when you were a child?" Deanna asks. The wheel is starting to move, and Amanda is peering curiously over the side; Deanna wonders for a moment if they'll be able to spot her family from the air. "If you get lost, look for a combadge."

Geordi chuckles. "Yep, my mother said that too. No, I meant taking Data on a Ferris wheel." He pauses. "Okay – what are we doing here, really?"

"Oh, to be in England," Data remarks, "now that summer's here."

"Exactly, Data. See, he gets it," she says, accusingly to Geordi, then relents. "Why, here, in Cambridge? My father went to university here before he entered Starfleet. When we took vacations on Earth he always brought me here."

Geordi seems happy with that. "I guess the captain did say we should expose Data to a variety of different things. And, all this" – he waves a hand at the rows of tents and flashing lights below – "is kinda fun."

"I'm glad you see it my way," Deanna says, and straightens her hat. As the wheel carries them further upwards, the bright lights are becoming a glorious jewelled patchwork beneath them. Data's obviously entranced: he puts his hands on the edge of the car and leans out as far as he can given a margin of safety no doubt calculated to several decimal places.

Geordi shakes his head, and smiles. They're about to reach the top of the wheel arc, and the car's beginning its descent. "Data, my friend," he says, "pretty soon people will be asking you where _your_ mother is."

Data turns at that, looks at Geordi with the fairground lights reflecting in his eyes. "In the basket," he says seriously, "in the rushes" – and Geordi inhales sharply and puts a loose arm around Data's shoulders.

"Don't say stuff like that," he says, gently, "at least, without warning me first" – and then he tenses, fingers curling tightly around the safety bar. Deanna turns sharply to look at them both.

"Geordi?"

"Something's wrong," Geordi says, tightly, and then a minute later, as the car they're in begins to describe the last quadrant of the circle, the lights go out. The car rocks, forwards and back, but stops moving downwards. On Deanna's other side, Amanda lets out a squeak.

"Are we stuck?" she asks, and her voice is small and scared. Deanna quickly puts an arm around her.

"I don't know," she says honestly, remembering that if the girl has any Vulcan blood in her, she'll see through any well-meant lie. "We'll have to be brave for a little while, while we find out."

"I don't think so," Geordi says, after a moment. Gingerly, he tests the motion of the car, pushing against the front bar, and Deanna glares at him, but the car doesn't start rocking again. "The safety mechanisms have come online, see? I'd even say it was just a power failure, except" – he waves a hand downwards, where there are still some lights visible, although fewer than there were a moment ago – "clearly not. If I could just get a look at the drive mechanism…"

Deanna says, "Geordi, this is not the time for vigilante engineering", just as Geordi says: "I reckon we could jump."

"Let's do that," Amanda chirps, and Deanna looks sharply at her. A quick empathic read establishes the truth of it: she'd rather be scared for a moment, while falling, then stay up here and be scared for who knows how long. "It's logical."

"Is it, though," Deanna says. "Geordi, it's – what, ten metres? I grant you we could jump, but we'd break a bone."

"Data wouldn't," Geordi says, peering over the edge – to eye up safe landing places, Deanna presumes, and then decides never to take either of them anywhere again. "And if he caught the rest of us, we wouldn't either."

"Further up and further in," Data says, happily.

Deanna glares. "Amanda," she says, "we will jump. You will stay here and come down the sensible way. Don't be scared, okay?"

And it all goes beautifully to plan, to begin with: in one smooth motion, Data lands and rolls and unfurls back to standing, and then when it's Deanna's turn to jump he catches her easily, their feet and weight shifting with grace, like they're swing dancing. Once they're all safely down, Deanna waves up at Amanda and shouts up to her that it won't be long, that they know what they're doing, and Geordi has already leapt over the little bit of fencing and grass protecting the central machinery panels of the Ferris wheel. He gets his screwdriver out of his pocket and starts muttering something about simple pulleys and concentric circles, and Data can't speak precisely enough to help, but he can point at things that he thinks Geordi should pay attention to.

Which is why it's Deanna, looking up to see if any of the lights are coming back on, who's the first to see the men walking across the common, wearing uniforms and carrying torches. "Excuse me, ma'am," says the closest one, holding out a badge and shining his light up into her face. "Can you explain to me what it is you're doing here?"

Deanna looks across at Data and Geordi tinkering with the drive mechanism, and up at the still, darkened Ferris wheel. "Oh," she says. "Oh, this isn't what it looks like…"

"Really," says the police officer. "Ma'am, I think you and your friends had better come with me" – and just too late to stop them from getting arrested, the Ferris wheel begins to move.

 

*

_Enterprise_ (e)

"Counsellor," Picard says, "from an academic perspective, this is all very interesting, and I believe you may well add to the considerable body of scientific research that already features Commander Data in an eponymous role. However, in the present instance, I think I would like to return to the point where the three of you broke out of civilian custody."

“We went back!” Geordi says quickly. “In the morning, we went back with Data and we went before the magistrate. She let us off with a warning.”

Picard says, wearily, "Computer. Cross-reference senior officers' personnel files with records of defendants for – Cambridgeshire Magistrates' Court, I suppose it must have been. Last three months."

"Working," the computer says, and Geordi cringes as the records begin to scroll across the screen.

“I see,” Picard says, when he finally looks up. “It appears from this that you and Counsellor Troi were cautioned for, and I quote, interfering with the internal matters of the Conservancy of the River Cam. Not Data?”

“The magistrate decided she wasn’t competent to rule on his mental capacity,” Geordi explains, “so she let him off.”

Picard looks like he’s imagining how the process of establishing that might have gone. “And the part where three recently-escaped criminals became role models for children?" 

 

*

_Ursa Major_ (b)

  


 

 

*

_Enterprise_ (f)

"We didn't actually land on her," Geordi says, embarrassedly, "and we got her home, only it turned out her father is Solok, the Vulcan artist. He was very grateful to us for bringing his daughter back safely. I guess he pitched the comic book idea to his publisher straight after. He thought Data was quite... uh, fascinating."

Picard picks up his briefing pack and reads: "The android character, to be purposely unnamed, is intended to provide a lateral perspective on events, perhaps from philosophical modes not commonly known to Vulcan or Human children. All right, enough. From what I've gathered, none of you have, technically, done anything against Starfleet rules and regulations. However…"

As the pause stretches, it's only Deanna who's brave enough to say, "However?"

"Computer," Picard says, "show memorandum received this morning from Starfleet general counsel's office. Record written response as follows.

"Dear Commander ch'Thane – computer, please insert suitable Andorian or Aenar greeting for relevant rank and status. I refer to your recent letter and write to confirm your initial suggestion that the characters in the artwork provided are intended to represent my three senior officers, Lieutenant Commander La Forge, Counsellor Troi and Lieutenant Commander Data. Pending any personal objection from each or any of them" – a long pause, in which Geordi knows better to say anything, or even move – "it is my considered opinion that all three would provide excellent guidance for children and young people. I record no objection to the making of the aforementioned graphic novel and associated media. Yours sincerely, Jean-Luc Picard, Captain, USS _Enterprise_ NCC-1701-D."

Another long pause.

"Dismissed," Picard adds, with a hint of a smile. "Actually, belay that. One final thing occurs to me."

"Yes, sir?" Deanna asks.

"This illustration," Picard says, pulling the image towards him. "There's an interesting aspect in which Solok's character doesn't resemble you, Data. Did you notice?"

Without saying a word, Data puts his hands to the tips of his ears.

"Right," Picard says, pleased. "I thought initially that that was because of the intended audience of Vulcan children. But now I'm thinking – that dark night, that fall from the sky onto Midsummer Common, on Midsummer Eve…"

Geordi laughs, and Deanna smiles; Data just says, "Yes, sir" – and the three of them trundle out. 

 

*

_Sigma Tama IV_ (d)

At the close of the day, they walk through the town to the beaming-out coordinates with a low, pleasant weariness in their bones. At least, Picard amends, in his; although Data, too, has an unfamiliar slackness in his gait, and a droop in the way he holds his head.

"The Speaker told me that now it goes to a vote," Picard says, as they cross the central square and walk along the edge of the long road. On Sigma Tama IV, there are neither cities nor countryside; the population is evenly distributed on the small landmasses, so every scene of civic life is shot through with sunlight and greenery. "We've done what we can, Data. Things well done, and with a care, exempt themselves from fear."

Data looks at him, then back at his feet, and keeps on going.

"I think I might be talking to myself," Picard says, smiling a little. "You know, Data, it will be nice to have you back to your old self. Certainly, it will be more efficient. But I hope" – he pauses, thinking about it – "that you will come back to us unharmed but not unchanged."

"Picard and Dathon," Data says, suddenly, "at El-Adrel."

"Yes," Picard says, a little taken aback. "Yes. Like that. Data, stop a moment."

Data stops walking in mid-stride and turns to look at him, all in one fluid movement. Picard has been noticing that change in him, that android precision transforming into grace. Everything, he thinks, is communication. Data opens his hands and the universal translator whispers, _yes_?

"Commander La Forge tells me," Picard says, looking up the dipping sun and around at the coming twilight, "that you may not remember anything of this, when you're returned to your more usual programming. Or perhaps that you will remember, but won't be able to speak of it. If that's the case, I'll merely have to tell you this again. Perhaps," he pauses, "it's a tale worth retelling.

"Puck is not human and Shakespeare takes every opportunity to remind us of that fact. He is an unholy trickster, a fey thing, a creature of the night. He is not more, or less: he is different. And he can be frightening, uncanny in that difference. But his loyalty and love for his fairy lord is unquestioned. Neither is his willingness to serve."

An uncurling of the fingers: _and_?

"With your help," Picard says, "I think we will meet the Tamarians in the spaces between. But I think we could take a little more care of you, my friend, in those same spaces."

Data inclines his head, offers a half-smile. They go on, through that alien sunset.

 

 

*

_Enterprise_ (g)

When Geordi gets back to engineering, it's to meet a chorus of happy sighs. Gomez is half-slumped against the wall, a little smile on her face, although she comes to attention as soon as she sees Geordi and starts entering data industriously into a console.

"As you were," Geordi calls. "I'm finally getting to go to bed in about half an hour. Just don't blow up the warp core and keep out of my way."

He goes to the master station as he says it, starts reviewing the ship's course and speed, and bit by bit, the conversation starts up again. "The look on her face," Gomez says, delightedly; from Geordi's elevated view of data flow into the core, her work isn't suffering from this minor distraction, so he smiles to himself and keeps quiet. "It was like… oh, this is it, they're gonna stay together this time."

"Three episodes to go," Ro says, and this time it's definitely malicious. "Next episode up, you'll see. It never happened. All the better to draw you out forever with."

Gomez grins. "Fine. I'll be there."

"Or," Ro remarks, "you could get a real hobby. Take up a sport, maybe. Or read actual literature."

"Really," Gomez says, and the grin is slipping off her face like water. "Go on, Ro. Tell me what actual literature is."

Ro frowns at her. "What do you mean?"

Gomez is glaring. "Seeing as I like my stupid nonsense about – what was it you called it? That _damn Vulcan love boat_."

"It is nonsense!" Ro flashes back. "It's totally inaccurate, it's clearly written by Humans who never met a Vulcan in their lives, it's…"

"It's cheap, it's trashy, it's full of rubbish." Gomez folds her arms. "Yeah, I know. I've heard it. Go on, Ro. Tell me what I should like. What's real literature?"

Ro looks slightly abashed for a second, but presses on. "It's what sustains you," she says, fiercely. "I grew up in refugee camps on Bajor. My father had kept books from the old days, before the Cardassian occupation. He'd read them to me. Sometimes other people would come and share what they had, too. If the Cardassians had found them, they'd have been killed for sedition." She turns, her eyes bright. " _That's_ what literature is."

"I didn't grow up in a refugee camp, Laren," Gomez says softly. "I grew up on the most far-flung colony world you ever heard of. Nothing but galactic dust for hundred of light years in every direction. I grew up knowing the same twenty or thirty people, their likes and dislikes, the way they took their tea, the way they sneezed. Nothing to do and nothing over subspace. When I left to join Starfleet it took four months at warp eight and I read the entire ship's library. I watched everything they had and then everything they added. I still do. It matters to me. Everything people love matters."

Geordi finds himself wondering if the colony world was Omicron Theta – in his mind, he hears Data's voice murmur, _in the basket, in the rushes_ – and then his console bleeps accusingly. "Ensigns," he says, mildly, "we have a ship to run."

"Sorry, sir," Gomez says, and they work silently for a few moments. Geordi is finally packing up, transferring his active command codes to the alpha shift commander, when Ro says, suddenly:

"Sonya. Listen, will you?"

"What?" Gomez asks, a little sulkily.

"I guess," Ro says, very quietly, "it's – I don't like it. T'Lara and T'Pel – it should be something proper. Like, none of this polywater intoxication or sex pollen or whatever. It should be – for good, for real. A true story."

Gomez smiles. "Yeah, me too." And then, a little trepidatiously: "The next episode should have come in the subspace packet by the end of shift. Do you want to…"

Geordi grins and heads out. Halfway back to his quarters, he realises that if Gomez really does watch everything that comes over the subspace media packets, she's going to be the first to know about the Empath, the Engineer, and the Storytelling Robot, and his last thought before falling asleep is that he doesn't really mind. 

 

*

_T'Plana Hath II_ (c)

FADE IN

INT. SHIP'S DAY. MORNING, T'PEL'S QUARTERS, USS T'PLANA-HATH II. THE ROOM IS SEMI-DARKENED, WITH THE STARS VISIBLE BEYOND THE PORTHOLE. 

 

LIEUTENANT SINGH (V.O.)  
Bridge to Captain.

T'PEL SITS UP IN BED AND WALKS ACROSS TO THE WINDOW BEFORE HITTING HER COMBADGE.

T'PEL  
T'Pel here.

LIEUTENANT SINGH (V.O.)  
Just to let you know, Captain, the last traces of the ah, substance, have been cleared from the ship's water, sanitation and ventilation systems. All clear.

T'PEL  
Thank you, Lieutenant.

LIEUTENANT SINGH (V.O)  
Will that be all, Captain?

T'PEL  
Tell me one thing, Lieutenant. At what point did the concentration in the ship's systems become low enough to no longer have an appreciable affect on humanoid biology?

LIUETENANT SINGH (V.O.)  
I'd say – about six or seven hours ago, Captain. Maybe more.

T'PEL  
Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all. T'Pel out.

T'PEL TURNS AWAY FROM THE WINDOW AND LOOKS TOWARDS THE BED. THE SHEETS UNFURL TO REVEAL:

T'LARA  
T'Pel? What was that?

T'PEL  
Singh reporting in. All traces of the pollen have been cleared.

T'LARA  
Oh. Good. [beat] Listen, T'Pel, this has been exceptionally foolish, but if we can just, put it behind us…

T'PEL  
We had already done so.

T'LARA  
Excuse me?

T'PEL  
The science teams on this ship are efficient. They had cleared the effective dose of the substance from the ship's systems. We _had_ put it behind us. And then… you came to me.

T'LARA SAYS NOTHING, BUT SITS QUITE STILL, HOLDING THE SHEET CLOSE TO HER.

FADE OUT 

 

 

 

*

_Sigma Tama IV (orbit)_ (e)

"How is this going to work?" Picard asks. They're back in the observation deck lab above Ten Forward. The windows curving across the space give a good view of the planet below, turning slowly within layers of dreamy cloud; the Enterprise is shortly to break orbit. "The same as before?"

"No," Geordi says, checking his readouts. "We could push him over the edge into thinking like a Tamarian, but we're gonna have to haul him back up. It's going to be gradual, maybe take a couple of days."

"Then let's begin," Picard says, and Geordi nods, and flicks the switch.

Data sits up slowly, not his habitual bolt-upright, and rubs his eyes with his hands. To Geordi's eyes, he looks very human.

"Data," Picard says, gently. "Can you understand us?"

Data looks at him, then at Geordi, then at the lab space, at the curving windows. His eyes are wide, unseeing, then startled.

"Data," Geordi tries, and comes to sit next to him on the raised platform they've got him on, puts a hand on his. "You've – been somewhere, I guess is the way to explain it. You've been somewhere, and now you're back. Do you remember?"

Data shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. The lab is dimly lit, so as not to overstimulate Data's synaptic functions; Deanna comes forwards from the shadows. She glances at Geordi's console panels, then at Data, and then Picard. "It's like… a fading broadcast," she reports.

Data shakes his head again, and then looks at his hands. "We won't know for sure that he's back," Geordi says, over his shoulder to Picard, "until he tells us so. You know you can't… measure this. Either he's there, or he isn't."

"Geordi," Picard says, very gently. "Let me try."

He takes his time, walking slowly across to the biobed, and finally sits down beside Data. "Well," he says, "my faithful sprite. Art thou Robin Goodfellow?"

 

 

*

_Omicron Theta, Tripoli (the cusp of all things beginning)_

  

 

*

INT. ENTERPRISE LAB – SHIP'S NIGHT 

 

DATA  
 _(repeating himself, to himself)  
_ I _am_ that merry wanderer of the night.

 HIS ATTENTION IS CAUGHT BY THE OBSERVATION WINDOW. MOVING SLOWLY, HE PRESSES HIS HANDS TO THE GLASS, AS THOUGH TRYING TO REACH THROUGH TO THE STARS ON THE OTHER SIDE. AFTER A MOMENT, PICARD JOINS HIM.

PICARD  
Welcome home, wanderer.

DATA  
Have I been dreaming?

AND AS THE SHIP JUMPS TO WARP, THE STARS BLUR FROM STATIC POINTS TO STREAKS OF LIGHT FADING INTO THE DISTANCE, AS WE

FADE OUT


End file.
